Chapter 16: Succubus Overload
The emergency lights painted the service corridor in sullen, intermittent red. It was a narrow space of dripping pipes and humming electrical panels, smelling of ozone and industrial cleaner. Vivian stood frozen in the center of it, her back pressed against a cold metal conduit. Five Consortium agents in various states of undress surrounded her, their uniforms torn open by tendrils of living shadow that now lay dormant around her feet like discarded snakeskins.
The agents weren’t attacking. They were… incapacitated. By need.
Their eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide with a hunger that had nothing to do with mission parameters. They panted, their hands trembling at their sides as if fighting the urge to touch. One, a woman with a severe blonde bob, had already ripped open her own shirt, her small breasts exposed to the cool air, nipples pebbled. Another man was on his knees, saliva glistening on his chin as he stared at the black lace garterbelt visible beneath Vivian’s rucked-up skirt.
“What the fuck do I do?” Vivian whispered, her voice trembling. The vampy confidence she could summon when feeding was gone, replaced by the timid, apologetic half-succubus beneath. Her shadows had acted on instinct, wrapping around the agents, seeping through their clothes, sinking into their skin to find the raw nerve of desire and yank. It was a defense mechanism, a predator’s last resort. Now she was trapped with five starving predators of her own making. “I can’t… I can’t feed from all of them. Not without hurting them. Not without…”
Her sentence died as the kneeling man lurched forward, pressing his face against her thigh, his mouth open against her stocking. He moaned, a deep, animal sound.
“Fuck them unconscious?”
The voice came from down the corridor. Bethany rounded the corner, her pink spiky hair looking surreal under the hellish red light. Liam was beside her, his expression a mixture of awe and concern. Behind them came Mike, Casey, Zack, Molly, and Ginny, a ragtag rescue party that skidded to a halt at the scene.
Hank, who’d offered the suggestion, shrugged under Fatima’s withering look. “What? You drain the battery, it shuts off. Basic mechanics.”
“That’s not how succubus physiology works, you idiot,” Fatima hissed, but she was already moving, her hands weaving a subtle pattern in the air. A calming green aura, like dappled sunlight through leaves, began to emanate from her palms.
“Actually,” Bethany said, adjusting her anachronistic sunglasses as she scanned the agents, “his crude analogy has a kernel of tactical sense. Look.” She pointed. The data-pad one agent had dropped was displaying fluctuating biometrics. “Their adrenaline and cortisol are spiking, but so are endorphins and oxytocin. They’re in a feedback loop of arousal. Breaking the physical contact abruptly could cause neurological shock. But if she can… regulate the discharge, bring them down slowly…” She looked at Vivian, her professional demeanor unwavering. “Can you focus it? Make it efficient?”
Vivian stared, her eyes wide with panic. “I’ve never tried with more than two! And never like this… not on purpose!”
The blonde agent made a choked sound and lunged, not for Vivian’s throat, but for the junction of her thighs, fingers clawing at the thin lace of her panties. Vivian shrieked, more in surprise than pain, and her control slipped.
The shadows at her feet erupted. They weren’t defensive this time. They were hungry, answering the call of the frantic energy pouring off the agents. Dark tendrils snaked out, wrapping around wrists, ankles, throats—not to choke, but to hold. They pinned the blonde agent back, spread-eagled against a pipe. Another tendril wrapped around the kneeling man’s head, gently but firmly guiding his mouth back to Vivian’s stocking-clad thigh.
The other three agents were on her in a wave. Hands grabbed her ass, squeezing through the fabric of her skirt. A mouth found her neck, sucking a bruise into her pale skin. Another agent fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, tearing one off in his desperation.
“I can’t hold them!” Vivian cried, but the plea was drowned out by the agents’ ragged groans. Her demon side was rising, responding to the buffet of lust laid before her. Her eyes darkened, the green bleeding into obsidian. A forked, shadowy tongue flicked out to wet her now-black lips.
“Do it, Vivian!” Bethany commanded, her voice sharp. “Feed. But control the flow. Use your Green Moon training. Sip, don’t gorge.”
It was like telling a drowning woman to swim. The need was too immediate, too violent. Vivian’s shadows yanked the agent at her blouse down, forcing him to his knees beside his colleague. With a flick of her wrist, another shadow-tendril pulled down the front of her lace bra, exposing her breasts. The cool air was a shock, then irrelevant as two fever-hot mouths latched onto her nipples.
“Ah! God!” Vivian’s head fell back against the conduit with a thud. The sensation was overwhelming. Two sets of lips and tongues working her breasts, a mouth on her thigh, hands groping her ass and between her legs from behind. Her own shadows held them in place, ensuring the contact, facilitating the feed.
Energy, hot and bright and jagged, began to flood into her. It wasn’t the smooth, consensual transfer she practiced in her shop. This was a riot, a looters’ rush on her senses. She could feel their individual cravings—the blonde’s need for domination, the kneeling man’s worshipful submission, the raw, frantic hunger of the others. It was too much. She was going to burn them out, leave them husks.
“Focus, Vivian!” Fatima’s voice cut through the haze. She was closer now, her hands still weaving that calming green spell. “Shape it. You are a vessel, not a void. Let it pass through you and… and into the ship!”
The ship. The SS Bon Voyage was a giant, grounded conductor. Vivian seized the idea, a lifeline in a storm of sensation. As a mouth found her clit through her panties, licking a wet stripe that made her legs buckle, she pushed. She didn’t pull the energy into herself to keep; she let it flow in, then redirected it down through the shadows anchoring her to the floor, into the metal hull of the ship itself.
The deck plates beneath them thrummed, a deep, bass note of diverted power. A nearby light fixture buzzed and brightened, then popped with a shower of sparks. The agents shuddered, their movements becoming less frantic, more rhythmic, as the edge of their desperate need was gently planed away.
“Yes,” Bethany murmured, watching through her sunglasses. “Energy is being diverted. It’s working.”
It was working, but it was still a raw, brutal act. Vivian’s panties were soaked, torn aside by eager fingers. One agent, now free of a shadow’s restraint, shoved two fingers inside her. She cried out, her hips rocking forward onto the intrusion. Another found her mouth, kissing her with a clumsy, greedy passion. She could taste his fear underneath the lust, and it was sweet. Her shadows wrapped around the blonde agent’s thighs, spreading them, and Vivian sent a phantom tongue of darkness to lap at the woman’s exposed cunt. The woman screamed, a sound of pure, shocked ecstasy, her body convulsing against the pipes.
Vivian was the center of a fucked-up, gasping orgy. Energy flowed into her—from mouths on her breasts, fingers in her pussy, the tongue on her clit—and she channeled it downwards, into the ship. The linoleum floor grew warm. The air crackled with a spent, sensual charge. One by one, the agents’ movements slowed. The man sucking her breast slumped, his mouth going slack, asleep mid-action. The one fingering her collapsed against her leg, snoring. The blonde agent had already passed out, a trickle of her own release dripping down her inner thigh.
Finally, only the kneeling man remained, his tongue still making weak, kittenish licks at her stocking. Vivian, trembling with the aftershocks of the transfer and her own denied climax, looked down at him. Her eyes had returned to normal, filled with tears and pity. She placed a hand on his sweat-dampened hair.
“Sleep,” she whispered, pushing a final, gentle pulse of soothing energy into him.
He sighed, a sound of profound contentment, and folded over onto the floor, out cold.
Silence, save for the hum of the ship and the ragged sound of Vivian’s breathing. She slid down the conduit to sit on the warm floor, her clothes in disarray, her body covered in a sheen of sweat and other people’s saliva. She looked… devastated. And sated, in a hollow, guilty way.
“Well,” Mike said, breaking the stunned quiet. “That’s one way to clear a hallway.”
Casey elbowed him. “Not helpful, honey.”
Liam was already shrugging out of his flannel shirt. He walked over and draped it around Vivian’s shoulders. “Alright there, lass?”
Vivian pulled the shirt tight, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I didn’t want to.”
“We know,” Bethany said, her voice softer now. She knelt, placing a small, bronze disruptor disk on the neck of each unconscious agent. They glowed faintly, ensuring a long nap. “You did what you had to. And you didn’t kill anyone. That’s a win.”
“It feels like a loss,” Vivian mumbled.
“Aye, but it’s one you walk away from,” Liam said, offering her a hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet. Her legs wobbled.
A metallic clang echoed from further down the corridor, near a door marked ‘Service Nexus B-12.’
“Redmond,” Bethany said, all business again. “We need to move. Now.”
They moved, stepping over the prone bodies. As they approached the door, the sounds from inside became clearer: the whir of machinery, a tense, low voice giving orders, and another voice—sobbing, pleading.
Bethany held up a hand. She peered through her sunglasses at the door. “Energy signatures inside. Four. One is bound… restrained with tech.” She turned to the group, her face grim. “They have a prisoner.”
Mike looked at Casey. Casey looked at Zack and the girls. They shared a single, collective thought, born of countless chaotic scenarios with Jan.
“Annoyance it is,” Mike whispered.
He didn’t knock. He just opened the door.
The room was a control hub, a nexus of wiring and monitor banks. Dan Redmond stood before a main console, his back to them. A woman in a maid’s uniform—Ava, presumably—stood guard over a figure slumped in a high-tech chair. Wires and probes were attached to the person’s temples, their head lolling. It was Rebecca. Her face was tear-streaked, her blonde hair stuck to her cheeks.
Tied to a pipe to the side, his face bruised and bloody, was Charley. Pollux sat defiantly on his shoulder, hissing at anyone who came near.
Redmond turned. He wasn’t the nondescript bureaucrat from his file photos anymore. His eyes held a feverish, zealous light. In his hand was a device that looked like a glass syringe filled with a swirling, silver-grey liquid.
“Ah,” Redmond said, his voice chillingly calm. “The anomaly’s friends. And the Golden Wand. How efficient of you to cluster.” He gestured to Rebecca with the syringe. “We were just discussing the nature of reality with Miss Franklin. Her fiancé’s unique… origins provide fascinating data on magical parasitism on the human form. This serum,” he held up the syringe, “will purge the residual enchantment from her system. A cleanse. Then we’ll see what remains.”
“You touch her with that, and you’re done,” Bethany said, her voice flat. Her hand was in her bag.
“Your technology is quaint,” Redmond sneered. “You dress up superstition in brass and cogs and call it science. We are the real science. The purge of irrationality.” He moved the needle toward Rebecca’s exposed neck.
“Hey, shithead,” Mike said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Did you know your fly’s open?”
Redmond’s eyes flickered downward, a reflexive, idiotic gesture. It was all the distraction Casey needed. She’d been palming one of the stray olives from the hallway floor. She threw it, not at Redmond, but at the console next to him. It hit a bright, green button with a soft splat.
A deafening alarm blared throughout the ship. Strobe lights mounted in the ceiling began to flash.
“Fire alarm,” Casey said with a shrug. “Everyone panic.”
In the chaos of the flashing lights and the blaring horn, several things happened at once.
Pollux, enraged by the noise, launched himself from Charley’s shoulder straight at Ava’s face. The maid screamed, batting at the furious, clawing ball of orange and white fur.
Bethany whipped a bulky, brass device from her bag—it resembled a handheld spotlight. She thumbed a switch, and a beam of coherent golden light, solid as a rod, shot out and smacked the syringe from Redmond’s hand. It shattered against the wall, the silver liquid hissing as it ate through the paint.
Vivian, drawing on the reservoir of energy she’d just banked, sent her shadows lashing out. They wrapped around Redmond’s legs, yanking him off his feet.
And Hank, who’d been hanging back, saw his opening. He barreled forward with a mechanic’s straightforward practicality, headed not for Redmond, but for the chair holding Rebecca. He grabbed the wires attached to her temples and yanked. They came free with a spray of sparks.
Rebecca gasped, her eyes flying open.
Redmond, on the floor, fought against the shadows. He pulled a small, pistol-like device from his belt and aimed it at Hank’s back. “You irrational fool!”
Charley, forgotten in the chaos, strained against his bonds. His eyes, usually so kind, fixed on the device in Redmond’s hand. He focused, not with magic—he had none left—but with a human will forged in love and desperation. He kicked out with his bound feet, connecting with a loose pipe junction behind him. A jet of scalding steam erupted with a violent hiss, billowing across the room.
Redmond screamed as the steam seared his arm. His shot went wide, hitting a monitor and blowing it out in a shower of glass and sparks.
Liam and Zack rushed to Charley, fumbling with the high-tech bindings. Molly and Ginny went to Rebecca, helping her from the chair as she coughed, disoriented.
“The baby,” Rebecca rasped, a hand going to her stomach. “Is the baby okay?”
“We’ll get you to a doctor,” Molly soothed, though her voice shook.
Bethany stood over Redmond, her brass-rod light aimed at his face. “Omega Protocol is cancelled. You’re under arrest by the authority of the Order of the Golden Wands for crimes against metaphysical sentience.”
Redmond glared up at her, his face a mask of pain and fury. “You’re protecting a cancer. She,” he spat the word toward where Vivian stood, pulling Liam’s shirt tighter around herself, “is an abomination. A parasite. All of them are. We will scrub the world clean.”
“Not today,” Fatima said, stepping forward. She placed a hand on his forehead. Her eyes glowed a soft, penetrating green. “Sleep. And dream of trains.”
Redmond’s defiance melted into vacant confusion. “My… my model train set…” he mumbled, before his eyes rolled back and he went limp.
In the sudden quiet, broken only by the persistent fire alarm, the group looked at each other.
In the sudden quiet, broken only by the persistent fire alarm, the group looked at each other.
Hank stared at the unconscious Redmond, then at Fatima. “Every time you do that sleep spell, they start babbling about model train sets,” he said, scratching his head. “If we ever have kids, none of them are getting a train set, ever. Seems like a pipeline to being a dick.”
From the floor, Ava clutched her Polluck-scratched face, glaring at Vivian. “You’re a monster,” she spat, her voice venomous. “And you have no idea how many of us there are. The Consortium’s numbers are beyond your pathetic, magical dreaming.”
Vivian flinched as if struck, fresh tears welling in her eyes.
“Enough,” Bethany stated, her voice shifting into a strange, metallic resonance. She spoke again, and the words seemed to bypass the ears and implant directly into the mind. “This is the ship’s security. The fire alarm is a false alarm. All is well. Return to your cabins. All is well.” The blaring klaxon cut off mid-siren, leaving a ringing silence. The strobes ceased.
Fatima moved to Rebecca, placing gentle hands on her shoulders and her stomach. A soft, green light emanated from her palms, warm and reassuring. “The baby is perfect,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Strong. Safe.”
Rebecca sobbed once, a sound of pure relief, and buried her face in Charley’s shoulder as Liam finished untying him.
Bethany pressed a bronze disruptor disk to the back of Ava’s neck without another word. The woman’s contemptuous sneer froze, then slackened as she slumped sideways, unconscious.
Mike looked around, his brow furrowed. “Where’s Rick?”
“Stacy took him back to her room when she went for her gun,” Liam said, brushing himself off. “The wee lad looked right sleepy.”
“Sleep is good,” Mike said, nodding slowly.
“Sleep is very good,” Casey agreed, leaning into him.
They looked at each other for a long moment. “And we mean actual sleep,” Casey clarified. “Sleep-sleep. Horizontal. With closed eyes.”
“Right,” Mike affirmed. “Not the other thing we do horizontally. Sleep.”
Hank snorted. “Knowing you two, I’m skeptical. The kid’s barely six months old and you’ve been caught pants-less in more closets than I can count.”
Fatima ignored him, wrapping a comforting arm around Vivian’s trembling shoulders. “Come on,” she said softly, leading the weeping half-succubus out of the control room. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Liam watched them go, then turned to Bethany amidst the wreckage of monitors and sparking wires. “So, Agent Pendragon,” he said, using her Golden Wand title. “What’s the plan for all this? Hornpipe’s a vegetable in medical, his lads are in the brig, but we’ve a room full of snoozing baddies and a dead woman on the sun deck.”
Bethany pinched the bridge of her nose, her pink hair stark under the flickering emergency lights. “We don’t have the authority to imprison people, Liam. The ship’s captain will notice missing crew. This is a logistical nightmare.”
Ginny, who was helping a shaky Molly to her feet, glanced over. “Can’t you just… magic them to forget? Amnesia spells or something?”
“Possibly,” Bethany conceded. “But the Consortium would detect tampering on that scale. They’d send more. And we have no idea how many sleeper agents are still on board.”
Zack finally spoke, his voice quiet but strained. “Can I go check on Mara now? And Jan?”
“Yes,” Bethany said, decisive. “Everyone who isn’t essential, go. Get Rebecca and Charley to their suite. Check on Jan, Mara, and the baby. Give that demon-cat a whole salmon.” She gestured for them to leave. “Liam and I will stay, try to sort this mess and figure out what the hell they were really after.”
The group filed out, a battered procession. Hank muttered, “Some vacation,” as he stepped over a pool of conductive gel from a shattered console.
Soon, only Bethany and Liam remained in the silent, ruined control room. The air stank of burned plastic and the coppery scent of blood from the dead stewardess whose body still lay on the deck outside.
Bethany’s shoulders slumped, the professional mask slipping. She stared at the main console, its screens dark. “Eleven more days at sea. How do we keep them off us for eleven days?”
Liam moved behind her, his large hands settling on her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tension. “We’ll think of something,” he murmured into her spiky hair. “We always do.”
Deep beneath the cold, black waves, far from the ship’s lit hull, two figures glided through the eternal dark. They were women, yet not, their forms shimmering with an ancient, fluid light. Europa and Calypso, sisters of the deep, felt the aberration above them—a void in the song of the world, a place where the natural magic of the ocean curdled against a shell of soulless technology.
The anti-magic field around the great ship was a buzzing, sterile itch against their senses. It was an insult. They turned their faces upward, their eyes like distant phosphorescent suns, and began to rise.
In her suite, Stacy sat on the edge of the bed, cradling baby Rick against her shoulder. He was fast asleep, his tiny breaths warm against her neck. She hummed a tuneless lullaby, her other hand resting on the butt of her holstered pistol. The room was dark, quiet. Safe.
Godfrey the puppy slept at her feet, a golden comma on the carpet.
The door hissed open. Mara stepped in first, followed by Jan, who looked tired but steady, her energy visibly restored. Mike, Casey, Zack, Molly, and Ginny piled in behind them, bringing the scent of ozone and stress.
“He’s okay?” Mike whispered, his voice cracking as he saw his son.
“Out like a light,” Stacy whispered back, carefully transferring the sleeping infant to Casey’s eager arms.
Casey held Rick close, breathing in his clean, milky smell, letting it wash away the memory of wires and probes. Mike wrapped his arms around them both, his face buried in Casey’s hair.
The moment of peace was fragile, palpable.
Zack went straight to Mara, gathering her into a fierce hug. She stiffened for a second, then melted into him, her arms locking around his waist. “You’re okay,” he breathed into her hair.
“We’re all okay,” Mara said, but her voice was thin.
Jan surveyed the room, her gaze landing on Stacy. “Thank you,” she said, simple and sincere.
Stacy just nodded, her usual tough demeanor softened by the sleeping baby. “What’s the damage?”
Before Jan could answer, the door opened again. Fatima guided a washed and changed Vivian inside. Vivian’s eyes were red-rimmed, her normally vibrant posture folded in on itself. She looked small.
“She needs to feed,” Fatima said to Jan, her voice low. “Properly. Gently. The backlash from what she had to do… it’s left her starved and ashamed.”
Jan understood instantly. She moved to Vivian, taking her hands. “Hey. Look at me. You saved people today. You controlled it.”
“I felt like a monster,” Vivian whispered, her voice barely audible. “I wanted… I wanted to drain them dry. I liked it.”
“And you didn’t,” Jan said firmly. “You found another way. That’s what makes you you, Viv. Not the hunger.” She glanced around the crowded room. “We need to clear some space.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of purpose. The group understood. Mike and Casey, with Rick, slipped into the adjoining bedroom, closing the door softly. Zack and Mara retreated to a small sofa, holding each other close. Molly and Ginny sat on the floor, leaning against each other for support.
Fatima stayed by the door, a watchful guardian. Stacy remained on the bed, a solid, grounding presence.
Jan led Vivian to the center of the room. “This isn’t about taking,” Jan said softly, for Vivian’s ears only. “This is about sharing. About giving you something clean and good.”
Jan didn’t use a spell. She didn’t need to. She simply began to unbutton her own blouse, letting it fall open. Then she reached for the hem of Vivian’s simple t-shirt, lifting it gently over her head. Vivian stood passively, letting herself be undressed, her body trembling.
Soon they were both naked. Jan’s freckled skin glowed in the lamplight. Vivian’s was pale as moonlight, her curves generous and soft. Jan drew her into a kiss. It was not passionate, but profoundly tender, a slow exchange of breath.
Stacy watched, her hand unconsciously moving to her own thigh. She saw the connection begin to form, not as a desperate suction, but as a gentle flow. Jan was offering a part of herself—her boundless, joyful energy—as a gift.
Jan guided Vivian to the bed, laying her down. She kissed her way down Vivian’s body: her throat, the valley between her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach. Each kiss was a sip of reassurance, a benediction.
When Jan’s mouth finally found the juncture of Vivian’s thighs, she didn’t devour. She worshipped. Her tongue traced slow, languid circles around Vivian’s clit, then dipped lower to taste her. Vivian gasped, her back arching, not from voracious hunger, but from a rising tide of gentle pleasure.
Jan’s hands stroked Vivian’s inner thighs, her touch feather-light. She drank from her, but it was a mutual offering. Vivian could feel the positive energy flowing into her, a warm, golden light that chased the cold shame from her bones. It was acceptance, forgiveness, love in its purest, most platonic form.
Vivian’s climax built slowly, a rising warmth instead of a violent spike. She cried out when it came, a soft, broken sound of release, and her fingers tangled in Jan’s red hair not to push, but to hold on.
As Vivian floated down, satiated and serene, Jan curled up beside her, holding her close. The room was quiet, filled with a sense of restored balance.
In the control nexus, Bethany and Liam pored over Redmond’s logs. The files were encrypted, but Bethany’s Golden Wand tech whirred and clicked, decoding snippets.
“It’s not just about eliminating magic users,” Bethany murmured, reading a fragment aloud. “‘The Cosmological Anchor is the key. The O’Connor woman is the vector. Retrieve the Anchor, and the foundation of their reality crumbles.’ What the hell does that mean?”
Liam shook his head. “Jan doesn’t have any artifact. She’s barely got a change of clothes that aren’t tie-dyed.”
“They believe she does,” Bethany said, her face grim. “Or that she is it. That makes her the target for the next eleven days, and beyond.”
Far below, Europa and Calypso broke the surface, their emergence unseen in the vast, star-dappled darkness. They stood upon the water as if it were solid glass, their gazes fixed on the towering, lit palace of the SS Bon Voyage. The anti-magic field was a visible scar to them, a gray, swirling negation against the vibrant life-force of the sea.
Calypso, the elder, tilted her head. “A sickness,” she said, her voice the sound of waves crashing in a hidden grotto.
Europa, her eyes glowing with a cooler, abyssal light, nodded. “A sickness with a heart.” She pointed a slender finger, not at the ship itself, but at a specific point within it—a point that thrummed with a familiar, chaotic, and potent energy. “There. The spark.”
They began to walk across the water towards the ship’s hull, their steps leaving momentary blossoms of phosphorescence on the inky sea.